


Caring for Your Colonel

by Brate



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 09:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Rodney's jobs is to make sure his leader stays sane. Not an easy task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring for Your Colonel

It's always up to me. Why is everything my responsibility? Not only am I charged with figuring out last-minute solutions of sheer brilliance to save our collective asses on an average of once a week, as well as my everyday duties making sure none of the idiots—I mean, _scientists_ —that have been assigned to me ruin what little progress I manage to make in spite of their "help." Now it seems my duties extend to ensuring a certain lieutenant colonel doesn't jump off the nearest balcony.

So here I am, just released from the infirmary, traipsing all over Atlantis, searching for a spiky-haired Kirk wannabe. He would deny it if asked, but he needs my help. I know that lanky bastard better than he knows himself. He's all about being there for his team, but this time he's the one in trouble. The man has worse survival instincts than a squirrel crossing the road. 

Sheppard refuses to answer any of my radio summons. Weir was kind enough to respond, telling me she'd taken my team off active duty for two days. Teyla and Ronon had already left for the mainland, leaving me alone to find the wayward soldier. 

I'd been hurt while under his protection, something Sheppard never took well. Instead of getting upset at the people actually responsible, he tended to blame himself. You would think, since it happened often enough, he'd realize that he was human—just like the rest of us, unfortunately. But it seemed like every new one hit him harder than the last.

So it was up to me to make him "talk it out." Not that I relish the task, far from it, but we all have our burdens to bear. Sheppard keeps me from dying; I keep him from going too far into his own head. It worked for us.

My first stop was his room. Not a very original hiding place, but I figured I'd start off easy. Lord knows I couldn't count on Sheppard to make it easy.

There was no answer to my knocking. Of course, I wasn't stupid enough to leave without making sure he wasn't inside and just ignoring me. Five minutes later, I had overridden his lock. I saw for myself that Sheppard wasn't in his bedroom or bathroom.

It's not as though I have an actual _physical_ list of his favorite hiding places, mind you, more of a mental one. Even if I've had to do this so many times that I might as well run a hard-copy checklist off the lab's printer. Keep things orderly.

Next was his "office." It tended to move every month or so, depending on how long it took for people to figure out where it was located. Since he'd only been at the new site for eight days, he probably hadn't been motivated to change yet.

Opening the former storage closet door, I walked inside and sighed. Crowded. That was the word. The idiot hadn't bothered moving anything out before shoving his desk in. I could never work in this type of environment—too many distractions. Most of the stuff in the room had been collected from around the city, stored until the science division could study and catalog it. 

To me, it could be anything: a power source, a tool, a future Nobel Prize. To Sheppard it was just "Ancient clutter," something to be tossed aside. Unless it was a weapon. Then he would get stars in his eyes, and look like a cartoon character. 

I finally pushed past the disorder and reached his desk. It was piled high with paperwork, but no one was working at it. I turned to leave when I was struck by a thought, circled around, and looked beneath the desk. I wouldn't put it past him to duck under there when he heard someone's approach. But it was empty. Another spot checked off.

No sign of him in the mess hall, and the cook said he'd grabbed some extra sandwiches when he'd stopped by earlier. So now he had sustenance to remain AWOL for an extended period of time. Why was I starting to feel like I was the Pegasus Galaxy's version of Sherlock Holmes—tracking down my prey through various clues? Nah, I was more like a Mountie. And I would get my man…eventually. All right, the mess hall was officially clear. 

A quick call to Chuck confirmed Sheppard wasn't in the control room. For a moment I wondered if Chuck was lying, but I think at this point he's smart enough to be more scared of me than Sheppard. Although it might be a simple case of Canadian loyalty…no, actually, it was most likely the fear. Either way worked to my advantage, so I didn't care.

I started asking everyone I passed if they'd seen the colonel. All negative replies. How is it possible that no one had seen him? Did he stumble across an Ancient invisibility cloak and not tell me? What if the city needed him? Oh…wait a minute. Would Weir get mad if I faked a Wraith attack? Yeah, probably. Fine, I would keep looking.

In the gym I waited patiently for the Marines to stop beating each other senseless—well, more senseless. When there was a pause in the action, they reported the colonel'd had a sparring session earlier that morning, but hadn't been back since then. 

Leaving the grunts to finish destroying each other's limited intelligence, I swung by Sheppard's room again. The last time I'd attempted to wrangle him, he'd doubled back after I'd checked it out. I wasn't falling for that again. It didn't take me long since I hadn't bothered locking his door from my earlier visit. The place was still empty.

Taking advantage of being free from prying eyes, I sat—very carefully—on Sheppard's bed for a break. I had assured Carson I was feeling fine, and I _was_ fine, just a little tired, that's all. I'd covered a lot of ground already, and the next stop was the last place I wanted to go. Which would be why Sheppard would think it to be a perfect hiding spot. Heaving a sigh, I struggled to my feet, groaning when the movement pulled a tender muscle. Once more into the breach.

The transporter ride was short, instant as usual. But to get to the landing where they'd set up the driving range required a fairly long walk. 

As I closed in on it, I could hear the whack of balls being hit into air and muted splashes when they came back down. Good Lord, I hated this place. Waste of time, waste of space. Not only were they squandering balls, which we had in limited quantities even with regular _Daedalus_ runs, but, technically, they were polluting the ocean.

I came around the corner and said, "I found you, you bas—" I stopped talking, but my mouth remained open in shock. I'd found myself yelling at Miko Kusanagi. 

She jumped, startled by my yell, and flushed, ducking her head. "Dr. McKay, hello. I didn't know you were a golfer."

"No, I just, I uh…" _Smooth, Rodney._ "I was looking for Colonel Sheppard."

"Oh, of course." Miko looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking her head. "No one has been here for the last hour, excepting myself."

"Right then, carry on." I backed up, watching from the doorway as she struck a few more balls and they flew off into the distance. With the strength and aggression she was using that club, I might need to watch my back.

By the time I got back to the transporter, I was exhausted and ready to admit defeat—at least for today. I would start looking again in the morning. Right now I just wanted my prescription mattress and my hypo-allergenic pillow. 

The door to my room opened, and there was Sheppard on _my_ bed, using _my_ laptop. 

"What the hell?"

He looked up and smiled. "Hey, Rodney, where've you been?"

"Where have I…? I've been looking for you!"

"You found me. Congratulations."

"Congrat— What is wrong with you?"

Sheppard closed my laptop and set it on the desk. "That's funny, Heightmeyer asked me the same thing last week. To be honest, I don't think it was very professional of her."

"Aren't you upset?"

Sheppard's brow wrinkled in confusion. "About Heightmeyer?"

"No! About this." I waved a hand to encompass my backside.

Sheppard snorted. "Contrary to what you might think, Rodney, I'm neither suicidal nor do I imagine myself infallible. I admit I would love it if no one ever got hurt on my watch, but that's not reality. So, yeah, once in a while I have to let off some steam, but I'm fine."

"But I almost died!" Oh my God, what was I doing? Did I _want_ him to have a breakdown?

"Rodney, you were shot in the ass…again. You really need to start using that dodge and weave method we talked about."

"Wait a minute. If you're okay with this…" I gestured again. "…why did I have to chase you all over Atlantis?"

"I guess technically you didn't, but it's what you do."

Apparently I'd suffered a head wound as well, because he wasn't making any sense. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, you know." Sheppard shrugged. "Whenever something goes wrong, you tend to hunt me down with your emo face on."

"I don't have an emo face." Seriously, I don't.

"Okay, okay." Sheppard held up his hands. "How about I call it your 'we have to talk about this' face? It's kind of our thing. So when Teyla and Ronon see it, they usually make themselves scarce."

"Hold on a minute; everyone's in on it?"

"Well, I wouldn't say everyone, but, yeah, your team knows you, Rodney."

Whatever warm feelings that engendered were quickly crushed by the realization that the entire time I was busting my ass—literally—to help a friend, I find out it was actually intended to be a journey of self-discovery. Screw that. "I hate you. I really do."

"No you don't." 

And wasn't that the whole problem? But Sheppard was smirking and I couldn't let him have this over me. I could only think of one effective threat. "Wait until I tell Carson you had me chasing you all over the city."

Sheppard paled.

I smiled.


End file.
